My Own Worst Enemy
by clevinger
Summary: a CSI thinks about the job and changes in herself


I do not own this character, please leave me alone. The song is "Long Day"; it belongs to  
Matchbox 20.  
  
  
  
  
My Own Worst Enemy  
  
  
  
  
  
i'm sorry 'bout the attitude  
i need to give when i'm with you  
but no one else would take this shit from me  
and i'm so terrified of no one else but me  
i'm here all the time  
i won't go away  
yeah, it's me, yeah, well, i can't get myself to go away  
hey, it's me, and i can't get myself to go away  
oh God, i shouldn't feel this way now  
reach down your hand in your pocket  
pull out some hope for me  
it's been a long day  
always, ain't that right  
and no Lord, your hand won't stop it  
just keep you trembling  
it's been a long day  
always, ain't that right...  
  
- matchbox 20 -  
  
  
  
  
"Never doubt. Never look back. That's how I live my life."  
  
  
  
  
It's strange, really. I got nightmares the first week I worked here. Now, I can look at autopsy  
pictures while I'm having my lunch. I keep asking myself over and over, again and again, have  
I become numb to all this? And each time I ask myself, I can never find the answer. Either that  
or I lie to myself, though I know it's a lie. It's hard to truthfully deceive oneself. Confusing  
isn't it?  
  
Yeah, well, welcome to my world. This is my life. My job. It's what I do, and basically who I  
am. It's heartbreaking to face this carnage night after night, I know, but it's the only thing  
I can do. But still, seeing this every graveyard shift can really wrack a soul. You'd think by  
and by these things would slowly diminish instead of crescendo, but it never happens. Homicides,  
suicides, and inhumane crimes are always happening. It can't be ignored. Sometimes the effort  
almost seems worthless, useless, endless, and worst of all, hopeless.  
  
I try to convince myself it's much better than the job I had previously. Of course, it is, but  
only through the eyes of the beholder. For now, to me, being a stripper and having to deal with  
death have equal power to obliterate all potential links to sanity. It's hard to ward off that  
kind of thing. It's almost like you're perpetually struggling to survive the vices of the world  
you're living in. I don't want to understand this horror.  
  
  
  
  
"Do yourself a favor; think for yourself."  
  
  
  
  
People ask me how I manage to perform this job. I often find myself without words to answer. I  
just mostly shrug it off and force a weak smile though deep inside somewhere I have the urge to  
pour out my heart to anyone willing to listen. I don't though. Of course, I don't. That's not  
me. Me, I keep things to myself and face down my own personal demons on my own. I deny that I  
need help sometimes, and refuse the help offered. I have to be strong on my own. I learned that  
ever since I was just a kid when I left home. You can't trust anyone completely. You can't let  
yourself be vulnerable too long or people take advantage of you. They manipulate you, and change  
you until you lose your identity and you find yourself face to face with a stranger in the mirror.  
It's one of the worst feelings one could ever have. To lose your identity is nearly unthinkable.  
But the worst part is, you don't even know it until it's too late, and you're already gone. You  
always only realize things when it's too late. Too late to do anything. Just too late.  
  
These past few weeks, I haven't been able to sleep at all. I just lie in bed and all that goes  
through my mind are images of the horrors I have to stare at. I can't think of anything else.  
Not even Grissom who's able to at least appear strong for everyone. Not even my own daughter  
whom I love with all I have within me. The only thing I have flooding my mind now are gruesome  
visions flashing before me like my life were coming to an end and those images were the only  
thing from my life worth experiencing the last seconds of my mortal, human existence. What has  
become of me?  
  
  
  
  
"If there's one thing you learn on this job is that human beings are capable of anything."  
  
  
  
  
Every time I deal with a case, I keep asking myself, am I feeling this? Am I feeling the agony  
that I'm supposed to feel every time I face death? I don't know, is my answer. Have I grown numb  
to all this? Sometimes it seems like it's coming back, but half the time it's just nothingness.  
Both numbness and feeling have deserted me. Was my soul dead to all this having been exposed  
for so long? It's been at least ten years now. Am I really dead to myself?  
  
But it seems to me, the cases in which I become attached to are the ones I can't seem to solve.  
I'm sorry. I feel so ashamed to say this, but I can't bleed for every case. I can't let myself  
bleed for every case I take up. If I do, then how the hell am I supposed to accomplish anything?  
I'm sorry. I can't let myself bleed as much as I want to. And after the case is tucked away  
complete, I find I feel guilty. Guilty that I didn't bleed, that I didn't hurt as much as I  
should have. The compunction grows on you until it's evident to every single goddamned person in  
the world except you. My facade fails me even then. I carry the guilt around, displaying it as  
if it were around my neck like the albatross from Coleridge's "Rime of the Ancient Mariner".  
  
And let me tell you something else I'd like to get off my chest. Every time there's 429 for a  
child, I hope to God it's not Lindsay. Then, upon reaching there I realize it's not and, goddamn  
it, I feel relieved. My God, I feel relieved. My heart skips a beat, and I breathe again. And at  
that point, I nearly drive myself crazy with guilt for feeling relieved. This kid's parents were  
never going to be able to hold their child again, and yet I still had the privilege to be able  
to hold Lindsay the moment I returned home. You don't understand this feeling. You don't  
understand. And you can't tell me you understand because you don't. Don't say it. Don't ever  
tell me you understand. You don't.  
  
  
  
  
"I just --- Mommy had a rough night and I couldn't drive here fast enough to tell you how much  
I love you."  
  
  
  
  
I can't live like this. I can't find myself, and yet part of me doesn't want to know. But I can't  
live knowing what I've become either. I can't. I don't think I can even feel anything at all  
now. I refuse to slip, and plummet into oblivion. I can't be weak. I won't let myself. Not for  
one second. I can't let my guard down. But I'm growing tired. I'm tired now.  
  
I am my own worst enemy. I am the only person powerful enough to destroy me. I am the only  
person to put any serious effort in those directions in the last ten years or so without knowing  
it.  
  
Oh, God help me through another long day. I can't back down. Not now, not ever.  
  
  
  
  
"I know I have a job to do. Excuse me." 


End file.
